


Tear the Flesh

by midnightblack07



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Death, Prompt Fic, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-12
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightblack07/pseuds/midnightblack07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She saw it still--the fresh cut--in the flicker of his eyes, in the twitch of his jaw, and the injustice of it all hit her harder than it had for a very long time…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _”but you're the actor, the extraordinaire, you make it look like I am the crazy one here..."_
> 
> Spoilers: 1x02 “The Kingsroad”

~*~

_“Break the skin, because I can’t tell where your body ends and mine begins,  
tear the flesh, I woke today feeling like some kind of masochist…”_  
Band Bang- Armchair Cynics

~*~

It takes nothing more than a glance at the infant’s crop of wiry, dark hair to deduce that he belongs to the king.

She doesn’t know what to make of him at first, this child borne of a stranger who doesn’t love her, of drunken fumbling and ghosts of lovers past (and present, always present). But it’s his eyes that do her in, as vivid a green as her own—a physical manifestation of her indisputable claim over him.

She only regrets that she cannot say the same for Jaime.

~*~

It’s possibly the worst fight they’ve ever had (though they all tend to seem that way), the force of her slap still rings across the skin of her palm (though no more than it does across the skin of his cheek, she’s certain).

He could never fault her for her marriage, saw her as nothing more than a powerless pawn in their father’s plight for the eternal glorification of their house—her youth, her beauty, her entire being as expendable a chip as any. But this, this would forever stand between them, the beautiful dark haired boy in her arms a rift in the flesh.

“It would seem he’s far from the drunken impotent you’ve made him out to be, managed to put a babe in you after all, did he not?” He’d said, to hurt her, to hurt himself—it was all one in the same after all.

She slapped him then, hoped the impact would force the sour smirk right off his face. It didn’t of course, only served to widen it, to further mar the face she knows as well as her own with all its ugly implications.

But she saw it still--the fresh cut--in the flicker of his eyes, in the twitch of his jaw, and the injustice of it all hit her harder than it had for a very long time.

~*~

The boy ( _her_ boy) dies less than a mere month after he was plucked from her womb, a brutal fever none could have foreseen the sly culprit, its heated tendrils wrapped around his little throat (around hers).

She hears a scream, so shrill and anguished it couldn’t possibly be her own, feels her legs fold beneath her, the world spin around her.

It’s Robert, not Jaime that catches her before she meets the ground this time, the imprint of his fist still stark against the wall.

~*~

“You’re glad he’s dead,” she spits at him, venom and betrayal and pure, unadulterated _pain_.

“Are you _completely_ mad?”

She could laugh, she could weep. Perhaps she is mad, perhaps they’re both mad (all mad)—mad people living in mad world where little boys as pure as snow are taken from their mothers and where brothers who love you, who _are_ you, have nothing to show for your suffering.

“I’m not the one who’s celebrating the death of an infant!” she’s nearly shrieking, all thoughts of exposure, of the consequences it would bring, as lost to her as her beautiful green eyed boy.

“Who’s celebrating?” He hisses, the words naught but a whisper, but they’re enough—more than—for her, and in an instant his head is crushed between her palms and their lips are molded together, a perfect fit—always.

This time, when her knees give way, it’s Jaime that catches her.

~*~


End file.
